“Son, who do we have here?”
“Dad, I’d like you to meet Bellamy Patrick.”
We shake hands. “Oh yes, I’ve heard a lot about you and your son from Hawk and Nolan. It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too, Mr. Sinclair.”
He waves me off. “Name’s John. None of this ‘Mister’ crap. I’m far too young for that.” The three of us chuckle. “Come on, Ma’s got something brewing inside.”
Hawk motions for me to follow his dad inside. Once I step in, I’m enveloped in warmth and basking in the smell of homemade bread. This kitchen is straight out of a magazine with its farmhouse table, wrought iron light fixtures, farmhouse sink and eight-burner stove. The cupboards are white and gray, and the floors are wide plank, stained to look rustic and old. I am in love with this kitchen and probably the rest of the house if I get to see it.
“Ma, I’d like you to meet Bellamy.”
The woman at the stove turns around, wipes her hands on her apron and comes toward me. She’s short, maybe five foot. She places both hands on my shoulders and looks into my eyes.
“Okay, I see it,” she says.
“See what?” I look at Hawk for an answer, but he doesn’t give one.
“My son is in love with you, young lady. I knew it the moment he came home and started talking about this beautiful woman he met. I’m Rhonda, but you can call me Ma, Mom, whatever you like.”
“You have a beautiful kitchen,” I tell her, but my eyes are on Hawk, who winks at me.
“Thank you, this was my anniversary present from John a few years ago. It’s functional and my daughters tell me it’s also very stylish.”
“They’re right.”
“Yes, well . . . go sit down, the chili is done. I’ll make your plates.”
Hawk directs me to the table and as soon as I sit down, the door opens and a string of people come walking in. Hawk tells me that they’re the ranch hands. They live and work full-time at the ranch, and some are even second and third generation employees of the Sinclairs’.
Rhonda brings over a tray with four bowls and places one in front of me. My stomach growls, even though I would’ve said I wasn’t hungry if asked. The chili smells amazing, but it’s the bread bowl that the chili is in that has my mouth watering.
“Did you make the bread bowl?” I ask Rhonda.
“Of course, everything is homemade here.”
“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” I say after taking the first bite.
Hawk and I end up spending the rest of the day at the ranch. I spend the day visiting with his mom, giving her my life story, and gushing about the rest of her house.
He makes sure I’m home when Chase gets off the bus, but he’s the one to wait for him. I think Hawk is a bit excited about tomorrow, with it being their first game. When Chase and Hawk come into the house, they’re talking strategy. Not about tomorrow’s game, but how they’re going to get me to agree to going out for pizza.
As if I could ever say no to these two.
By the time we arrive at the Sinclair Fields, the parking lot is full of cars, the fields are busy with games, kids of all ages are running around in their baseball gear — some not — and my stomach is growling over the smell of popcorn and hotdogs. Once Hawk finds a parking spot, Chase and I get out of the truck and start lifting the equipment out of the back of the truck. Hawk protests, saying he can get it, but after a long talk with his mom yesterday, I learned that Hawk isn’t supposed to lift anything, and he’s not allowed to throw a ball any farther than ten yards. I glared at him when she said those things and told him no more. He needs to get better so he can go back to Boston, not that I want him to, but I know he misses his team and the game.
As soon as we see Owen, I pass the bag of bats to him, adjust my mini Renegades shirt and head to the concession stand. I don’t think I’m in line for a minute before the gossip starts.
“You know,” the woman behind me says into my ear. “He has a girlfriend back in Boston and once he leaves here, he’s never going to call you again.”
How does one even respond to a statement like this with dignity? I turn around and stand as tall as I can. “I know, we’re thinking about having a three-some later.” I shrug, smile and turn back around, trying with everything I have in me to stay calm even though I’m anything but. I’m raging. I’m sad. Why are women so nasty to one another? Why can’t whoever it is behind me just be happy for her ‘sister from another mister’? No, instead she wants to bring me down to her level of pettiness.
When I get to the counter, I place my order for a couple of hotdogs, a few drinks, a bag of popcorn and some candy. Might as well go all out for my son’s first game. I hand the lady behind the counter a twenty, but she shakes her head. “Is it more?”
“No, Mr. Sinclair gave us strict instructions not to charge you for anything.”
“Oh, is that normal?”
“I’m not sure, he’s never been here for a game before.”
“All right.” I toss my twenty into the tip jar, collect my tray of goodies and head toward the stands. Hawk is easy to spot among everyone. He’s the guy surrounded by every little kid not playing baseball and some adults, all clamoring for his attention, while all his attention is on Chase. They’re watching a game and Hawk is pointing things out to him.
I stand there, taking it all in, and hating how the woman in the concession line acted toward me. Jealously is an ugly trait to carry around. To me, Hawk’s a normal guy who I happen to be falling deeply in love with, and so is my son. It sucks that his job is going to take him away from us, and I’m not naïve enough to think we’ll continue our relationship once he’s back in Boston either. But until then, I’m going to ride this wave, so to speak.
“What is Chase doing? He should be getting ready.” I look to my left to find Greg standing next to me. I continue to glance around, waiting to spot Priscilla, but thankfully I don’t see her.
“What are you doing here?” My voice is cold, detached.
“Chase has a game.”
I glance back at my son, sitting there with Hawk, and wonder how Chase is going to react to the presence of his father. Not well, I imagine. I start walking toward them, knowing Greg is hot on my heels. I want him to go away, to let us continue living in the bubble we’ve created for ourselves, but he won’t. And honestly, he shouldn’t. He should want to be with his son every chance he gets.
Chase smiles when he sees me coming. I return the sentiment and then watch as his grin disappears. “Hey, bud,” I say as I come to stand next to him. Hawk glances at me and I give him a look, hoping he understands what is about to happen. I wait for a minute for Greg to say hi to this son and when he doesn’t, I make introductions.
“Greg, this is Hawk Sinclair, Chase’s baseball coach.”
“And mom’s boyfriend,” Chase adds. Secretly, I want to kiss him for saying this to his father, but right now I’m mortified because he said it rather loudly and others are looking.
Greg starts to say something but closes his mouth. “It’s nice to meet you, I’m Gregory Patrick,” he says to Hawk while I roll my eyes, before turning his attention to Chase.
“What do you say we go sit down and talk?”
“No thanks,” Chase says. “I’m watching this game with Hawk.” Chase steps closer to Hawk, who isn’t paying any attention to Greg. He’s focused solely on Chase and me.
“Bell, may I speak with you in private?”
I spread my arms out. “Where exactly would that be, Greg? Just say what you have to say.”
He adjusts his collar and smiles at Chase. “It can wait until after the game.” Greg mock punches Chase in the shoulder, “Go get ‘em tiger.”
Who even says that anymore?
The Renegades finally put together a win streak of five games before dropping a game in the middle of their Twins series. Our bats have been okay, but we’ve lost some heartbreakers late in the game by one run or two, and we’re currently sitting
in third place behind the Yankees and Rays.
* * *
President of Baseball Operations, Ryan Stone, caught up with us after the last game and told us the second half the year will be better, which leads us to believe Hawk Sinclair will be back after the All-Star break. More on him below.
* * *
Branch Singleton, designated hitter extraordinaire, has hit for the cycle and has twenty home runs under his belt so far. Is it too early to start the MVP chant? I think not!
GOSSIP WIRE
We thought we’d bring an update on Hawk Sinclair’s Little League team. He’s kept us fully abreast to how the team is doing, which is made up of both boys and girls. Hawk tells us that his ace pitcher and clean-up hitter are “young women who will change the face of baseball.”
* * *
The Mini Renegades are off to a slow start, but Coach Sinclair isn’t worried. “Youth baseball should be fun. The kids should laugh, make mistakes, and learn,” according to Hawk.
* * *
We reached out to Wes Wilson, who shared the same sentiments as his ace pitcher, stating, “The Renegades fully support Hawk’s decision to coach. We’re looking forward to catching a practice or a game, but more so to having Hawk back in the dugout.”
Twenty-Five
Hawk
The sound of the baseball hitting the catcher’s mitt echoes through the empty fieldhouse. It’s my favorite sound in the world and each time I hear it, I smile. He drops the ball and readies himself to catch another one of my sliders. The catcher, Javier Viernes, was sent to Montana by the Renegades to aid in my rehab. He was injured earlier in the season and sent too AA to recoup, but the organization figured he’d benefit by helping me. I’m thankful for him because I’m not sure there’s anyone in town who can catch my fastball. Not to mention, he’s been a tremendous help with my Little League team.
Those little Renegades, or Mini’s, as we’ve taken to calling them, are the highlight of my day. They’re eager to learn, they hustle, they ask questions, and they grin from ear-to-ear whether they win or lose. I knew going in I had an uphill battle, with Brett being the biggest mountain to climb. Never, in my life, have I met someone so determined to stand in the way of kids playing baseball. It’s like he’s throwing a temper tantrum just because he can. Everywhere I turn, look, or go, someone is commenting. Granted, most of the things being said are positive, but there’s still too much negativity out there, especially from the parents who follow Brett’s every move. I get it. I left and became an outsider despite the fact I’ve funded the fields. It’s an out of sight, out of mind society. To them, I’m the guy on television every four days trying to win a game. The famous baseball player that the local paper writes about but never sees because he doesn’t come back in the off-season. It all makes sense, except it doesn’t. What Brett and his cronies are doing, I’ll never understand. Nor will I understand why Greg — or Gregory Patrick, as he likes to be called — is still in Montana.
I take that back. I do understand and want to believe it’s because of his son and how much time he’s missed, but I’m not entirely sure that’s the case. Chase wants nothing to do with his father, which is understandable considering his dad has pushed him aside a few too many times. I’ve seen it all unravel firsthand at our games and practices. There’s “Game Greg” who sits in the bleachers next to Bellamy, cheering on their son while his ex-wife ignores him. And then there’s “Practice Greg” who stands at the fence and yells at his son to do things a certain way while Brett stands next to him and eggs him on. From the beginning, I asked the parents to let Owen, myself and, now, Javier coach the kids, and they all agreed. All except for Greg. After his first outburst, I asked him kindly to refrain from yelling at Chase, going as far to explain to him, while looking at Brett, that effective coaching does not include yelling. This is Brett’s way of coaching and one of the reasons I believe his daughter asked to play for me. I let her and I know it has ruined his plans to make a run for Williamsport. Matty understands this but tells me she’d rather play for a team who wants to learn than a team that wants to win. Also, the more time I spend with her, the more I believe she’s my daughter, and every time I go to talk to Annie about it, she dodges me. I know there are tests that can be done, but short of speaking to a lawyer, I don’t know what I can legally do about it.
I’m trying extremely hard not to come between Chase and his father. I want to believe that Greg means well, but I have yet to see where he’s actually helping his son instead of hindering him. The nagging, belittling and yelling isn’t how you reach a ten-year-old. I’ve asked Greg to stop the coaching from the sidelines, only for my request to be honored for about five minutes. He apologizes but starts up again. After one practice I asked him which professional team he played for. Chase laughed, Greg scowled, Brett told me I was finished in Richfield, and Bellamy let me ravish her body all night. Still, the damage was done to Chase.
I have yet to raise to my voice at these kids. Neither has Owen or Javier. Every mistake is a teaching moment. No one is doing anything wrong and every day I see this team, I remind them that we’re out there to have fun. We’re there because we enjoy the game of baseball. Everyone agrees except for my clean-up hitter, Alexis. She’s there to win. She’s tiny and powerful, knocking a homerun in every game so far and racking up the RBI’s. I almost laugh each time she comes up to bat when there’s a runner on there because I know they’re crossing the plate.
I also never thought I’d coach girls, but damn it if they’re not hungry to play baseball. Who am I to deny them? Up until now the only girl in Richfield Little League was Matty, but once word spread that I was starting a team, three girls asked if they could play. I thought the boys would mind but then I remembered they had been denied a chance to play so they understood and weren’t about to stand in their way. Of my twelve-person roster, four are girls, and three of them are the better players on the team.
“Ten more,” Javier hollers to me. He’s crouched down and his glove is ready. My arm cocks back as I start my motion and hurl the ball toward him. He catches the ball and sets it down beside him as I reach into the bucket marked sixty and grab another baseball.
Last week, I threw fifty. The Renegades staff is working in conjunction with the University of Bozeman’s training staff to help get me on track. I should’ve gone back to Boston to start training but asked that I stay in Montana until it’s absolutely necessary. Truth is, I’m not ready to leave Richfield. The thought of being thousands of miles away from Bellamy doesn’t sit well with me at all. From the second I met her, I was falling for her and I didn’t even try to stop myself. By the time I kissed her for the first time, I was already in love with her. It’s crazy to think that because I had never fallen in love before but that’s how I knew. The way I feel around her . . . it’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I liken it to starting a game. The rush of emotions, the anticipation, the goosebumps that take up a permanent residence on my arms. Every day is like that with her. From the first time we spent the night together, we haven’t been apart. We’re playing house, with me being the dutiful boyfriend. On the nights we don’t practice, I help cook dinner, Chase and I play catch in the backyard, and I sit at the table with Chase while he does his homework. I mow the yard, put out the garbage and watch Bellamy’s car in the driveway. Since I’ve met her, I’ve become domesticated, and my teammates give me crap about it at every opportunity. I’ll take it though. I’d rather have these moments with her and Chase, instead of wondering what they’re doing all the time.
After I throw my last pitch, Javier stands up and comes toward me as one of the school’s work study kids picks up the net and walks under it to start picking up the balls. “How’s the shoulder?”
I rotate my arm around a few times and nod. “Feels good, actually.” I’ve measured the tenderness in my arm by the number of pitches I’ve thrown. When I started with thirty, I was sore. I needed an ice bath after every session and requested more physic
al therapy. When I hit forty, I wasn’t sore until the end of the week and at fifty, I seemed okay. The goal, of course, is a hundred pitches, mixed between my fastballs, curves, and sliders. I rarely throw a knuckle ball during a game so we’re less focused on making sure I’m ready for that pitch. Overall, my rehab is going a bit slower than anticipated. Twelve weeks is what the doctor said, and of course I had a minor setback after I punched Brett in the nose, for which I’m pleasantly surprised he hasn’t filed charges against me yet. I’m still waiting for the lawsuit, which I’ll take over a criminal record. Still, I should be heading back to Boston in the next couple of weeks, but it looks like I’ll be out until at least mid-July.
Javier pats me on the back as we walk toward the training room and when we get there, we find just what the doctor ordered — ice baths. They hurt, but damn they feel good too. We both strip down to our boxers and climb into the tub. I holler while Javier cusses in Spanish, until we’re both submerged. The trainer starts the timer for us. No more than six to eight minutes is the recommendation.
“How’s the hand?” I ask Javier. He pulls his left hand out of the water and flexes it. Six weeks ago, he slid into home and the catcher stepped on his hand, breaking it. It was a freak accident, but one that put him on the injured list. He was sent from our AAA team down to double to rehab, until I said I needed a catcher.
“Better, but tender. I like the trainer here, she’s nice.”
Thinking back to my first day with her makes me laugh. “I think I referred to her as “the spawn of Satan”, or something like that, when I started working with her, but she knows her job well and knows how to work those muscles. I swear I had aches in places I didn’t know existed until I started with her.”
Hawk: The Boys of Summer #4 Page 17